Flash Fiction - Grated

Hopefully this qualifies as ‘Flash Fiction’ on two counts – firstly it’s under the requisite 1000 words and second I wrote it in a flash just this afternoon.

There’s a note about the inspiration at the end but that’s probably better left until after.

Grated

“What the hell is this?”

It’s not going well, this day. Not well at all.

“It’s the ‘Spaghetti al Forno’ sir”

“Al who?”

“’Forno’. Like you ordered.”

“Naw, ‘couldn’t be! I never eat anything with a name.”

Appreciative laughter all round the table. Christ, business lunches are the worst of all.

“Plus, it’s very undercooked. It’s tough.”

“It’s ‘Al Dente’, sir.”

“Another ‘Al’, what are they? Cousins?”

More laughter from the three other suits. Bordering on raucous. Two bottles of Chianti down, the third just opened.

“Plus this wine is corked. Here, taste it.”

Yes, yes, yes, how often is the poor wine accused of being corked? As if this Philistine would have any clue. I raise the bottle to my nose. I don’t need to taste it to tell if it’s corked. I sniff it gently of course it’s completely…

…corked. Jesus Christ.

“Sorry, sir, I’ll bring you another.”

“Do that. And get Al out here too, I want to talk to him.”

Haw haw haw.

I’m not even meant to be here today. The owner deserves one day off a week and Tuesdays are usually quiet. But Marco has to pick Monday evening to twist his ankle at five-a-side.

Thanks Marco.

And when somebody twists something, I’m never that hard to find. I live right up over the restaurant. People think it’s a hardship but really it’s quite elegant.

I was looking forward to catching up on my videoed shows too. One glorious day. Then I got the call. To tell the truth, I wasn’t all that annoyed. Maria had chosen today to do that thing she does – that gross disgusting thing – and she was doing it right in the TV room.

“…cheese.”

“Sorry sir. What was that?”

“I need some Palmerstown Cheese, for this ‘Al-Stuff.”

Is this fat bastard actually for real?

“You mean Parmesan?”

“Palmerstown, Parmesan, I need some of it before ‘Al’, here, freezes over.”

Hardy har harrrrr.

Parmesan. Right.

I go to the servery to get the prick his Parmesan cheese and a new bottle of wine.

There is none.

Not wine. There’s plenty of wine. Gallons. There isn’t any Parmesan, though. Not a speck. Oh my God, an Italian restaurant, without any Parmesan? Tell me why, I don’t like Tuesdays.

In the kitchen, Giovanni is sweating just like that pig which he is carving used to in life. He doesn’t have any Parmesan either. It’s on order, it’s being delivered any minute. Yeah, yeah, it’s not here though, is it? It’s no good to me 'on order', is it?.

Back at the table with some new wine, Porky and his cronies look up at me, ready for more fun.

“Here’s your wine.”

“Palmerstown.”

“Sorry we’re out.”

Silence. Loops of linguine dangling from pursed lips.

“You’re what?”

“Out. Sorry.”

Then I get the Litany. I’ll spare you. Just fill in the blanks, you’ve seen it often enough. The service staff get caught short for something. The head of the table uses the opportunity to enforce his alpha-male status by shitting all over the poor beleaguered guy. Blah, blah. Here’s the end of it;

“… and if you don’t get me some Palmerstown Cheese for my Spaghetti Al Caponey, I will refuse to pay for anything and I will never come back here again.”

Oh yeah, that last bit is worrying me – not. The first bit is though. These guys are three bottles in, four if you count the corked one. That kind of ditched bill can really sting.

I think I might have some spare Parmesan in the fridge upstairs. I bloody hope I do.

As I enter the apartment, I glance in at Maria in the room. She’s still doing that disgusting thing of hers. God, how long can it take?

Just Call me 'Old Mother Hubbard'. The fridge is bare – well, not ‘bare’ but bare of ‘Parmesan’. I kind of thought it was, but there was a small chance.

Maria looks up from her task as I slope in. She looks alluring in her dressing gown, maybe I should just stay up here with her. Good idea, except she’s doing that ‘thing’ and it’s a total passion-killer.

“Hi honey, 'you all right?”

“Trouble below, I’ll handle it.”

“I have no doubt you will handsome.”

I stare.

“Sexy stuff eh?”

“No… Why do you have to…?”

She shakes her head and smiles. Yup, still alluring despite this ongoing gross practice.

“We’ve talked about this. The soles of my feet get really really hard. It’s the sandals. This pumice stone takes off the hard skin and keeps me beautiful. I know it bugs you but…”

I stare at the newspaper on the floor. The shavings, so much shavings.

“Are you finished?” I ask, fake-distractedly.

“Just now. Why?”

“Nothing, it’s just that, I could take that out for you, as I go.”

“Could you darling? That would be great. I’ll just roll up this newspaper.”

I smile at her. She's lovely, really.

“No, don’t do that. I’ll get a little bowl.”

(c) Ken Armstrong 2009

This story was inspired by my friend Kathy's post of today over at her excellent Junk Drawer.

We've all known guys and situations like that. You have caught both excellently well. Reminds me of an occasion when the temperature was in the high nineties and a diner demanded a fresh bottle of wine because the ice was melting in the ice bucket. He got it, of course.

LOL...not bad blood at all...I've worked in the restaurant industry for a decade, and was a server for 3. You don't think I know how to think like the server in your story? C'mon, mate! So, did you work as a server at one time? Where did the inspiration come from?

McGuire: Gosh no! I haven't had my iron-clad sensibilities rattled yet! :) however I too have lost over 20 'followers' in the last day and I've seen other people say the same. I don't understand it but I'll go and add you back in straight away.

Matt: I guess if Dear Kathy hadn't gone there then I wouldn't have either. :)

SS Tragus: I wonder how it would taste? I think texture would be a bit of a giveaway but if the shaving were sufficiently fine, it might go down a treat. :)

Markchop: Thank you very much and thank you to all you lovely Stumbleupon people who are currently passing through. Green thumbs make a big difference to how many are directed here and they are always greatly appreciated. :)

Oh, the stories you hear about what waiters do to customers’ meals. I think the worst one I heard about concerned an Indian Restaurant where, after eating the meal, the customer fell sick and doctors discovered the sperm from a dozen or so men in her (I think it was a woman) stomach. Why exactly they thought to test her stomach contents I’ve no idea—is that normal procedure?—but that’s how the story went.

Excellent story, Ken. A trifle contrived perhaps—I saw where you were going with this—but I really didn’t mind. I have to say this seems a bit long for flash. I know flash can officially be anything under 1000 words but this feels too well-rounded to call flash. Flash, to my mind, tends to leave a lot more for the reader to have to do to complete the story but here you hand it to him—if you’ll pardon the pun—on a plate.

'Me' Stuff

55 Years Old.
Loves to write.
Has had writing produced for radio, theatre, and film... some short stories published (and broadcast) and a laundry list which was highly commended by 'Whiter than White' in Castle Street.
'My Writing Resume'